


and over all these virtues put on love

by peltonea



Series: all these blessings shall come upon you (and overtake you) [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Eden's Gate Cult, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: "I need to go back to Fall's End," John says, walking back into the dining room, cellphone clutched in his hand. "I'm so sorry. I know you were really looking forward to this.""What is it?" Rook asks. It's rare for John to display vulnerability, but the frown and the tight jaw and the white knuckles can only mean one thing: he's very, very anxious."Something's happened to Joseph, but he won't tell me what," John says.(In which John and Rook attempt to have a pleasant Thanksgiving with Rook's family. 'Attempt' being the operative word.)
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Series: all these blessings shall come upon you (and overtake you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404424
Comments: 46
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the first of two sequels set in this universe. I hope you enjoy. This won't have any smut, sorry!

“Hey, you got any plans coming up?” Pratt says, sliding his desk chair over to Rook’s desk, in the casual way that means he wants something. His shift is over, but he’s still hanging around, which probably means he forgot to bring a suitably protective jacket or umbrella with him: the weather turned about an hour ago, a freezing deluge of rain battering Fall’s End.

“I’m going back to Canada for Thanksgiving,” Rook says, signing his current form with a flourish (a terse reminder to one Charlemagne Victor Boshaw that pants are not optional in public places, regardless of his personal understanding of the US Constitution). 

“What? The fuck did you manage to swing Thanksgiving off?” Pratt frowns. 

“Good looks and charm, which clearly you don’t have,” Rook replies, with an exaggerated wink.

“Ha ha,” Pratt says, with no trace of mirth. “For _real_.”

“For real? Canadian Thanksgiving is in October. Same weekend as Indigenous People’s Day. I’m bringing John to meet my family.”

“Ah. So it’s a serious thing, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Rook says.

“Well, uh. Good luck, I guess,” Pratt says. 

“I’m going to need it,” Rook replies. Pratt tilts his head to one side, clearly confused.

“Why?” he asks. “You’re gonna spend a week with the family, relaxing and eating tons of home-cooked food and getting laid, right? No serial killers or drunks or whatever. That’s got to be a good time.”

“Parents still aren’t happy about my ‘lifestyle choices’,” Rook clarifies. “Neither are my grandparents. And my older sister isn’t peachy keen on it either. It’s going to suck, even if I am getting laid every night.” Which he probably won’t be, to be honest. Weirdly oppressive silence and passive aggression doesn’t exactly make for a romantic atmosphere.

“Why are you even going, then?”

“Was gonna pop the question soon,” Rook says. It’s early to be considering it, but… well. Things with John have been going really smooth, ever since they agreed to being an actual item, and actually communicating with each other has helped things a hell of a lot. “It’s only right that he meets my family. Knows what he’s getting into. And they should know, too. They’re not going to be happy, but whatever. It’s better than running out on them again.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Pratt says, eyes narrowed. 

“Yeah,” Rook says. “There is.”

Pratt leans forward, eyes glittering with curiosity. Rook shakes his head.

“Uh-uh. You want to unlock my angsty backstory, you’re going to have to earn it.”

“I haven’t already? Wow.” Pratt rolls his eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want donuts tomorrow. The good ones, from the bakery down the street. Triple chocolate.”

“Done.”

“And I don’t want to hear you complaining about not getting laid or whatever for at least a week.”

“There’s no way I can hold out that long,” Pratt says, instantly. “Three days.”

“Five.”

“Four?”

“I guess that’s close enough.” Rook says, and Pratt grins.

“Well?” 

“You seem way too happy about this,” Rook says, shaking his head. “Fine. You get your story when I get my donuts.”

* * *

_ Matthew Rook, aged nineteen and a bit, pokes his food around his plate. It’s his favourite, Maman’s spiced chicken stew, flanked by generous portions of creamy mashed potato, steamed beans, and roasted vegetables. (“Don’t be so stingy,” Maman always scolds, tipping an extra helping of something-or-other onto his plate. She does it no matter what they’re eating, or how much he’s taken. The kind of motherly love that tends to go hand-in-hand with obesity.)  _

_ “And what about you, love? What happened with what’s-her-face at the sewing club?” Nínna asks. “You said you were going to talk to her.” _

_ “Oh, you mean Martha? Talk, I did,” Maman says, and she quickly launches into an explanation of how Martha’s come to see the error of her embroidery-pattern-stealing ways, embellishing it with various petty observations of the woman’s character and appearance, as she tends to do.  _

_ Wednesday nights are always like this. Nínna’s cool, laid-back demeanour always plays perfectly against Maman’s loud, passionate exclamations. It’s one of the few nights they’re all together— Matthew’s job keeps him late at weekends, and Nínna usually has to work late on Thursdays and Fridays, and Maman’s volunteering keeps her busy Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday is their family night. _

_ Usually, watching his parents banter makes Matthew feel at ease. Happy. But right now, he’s nervous. Fear and anxiety shrivelling his stomach, weighing him down despite the fact he’s only eaten about three bites of his meal.  _

_ “You feeling okay?” Nínna asks, taking notice of the fact he’s mostly stirring his food together instead of actually eating it. “You seem quiet.” _

_ “Yeah, I’m fine,” Matthew replies. He is. Everything’s fine. Annalise was fine yesterday, when he’d finally worked up the courage to break up with her, to set things straight (or… well. Not-straight, as the case might be). It’d been a long time coming. Turns out that no amount of intimacy with a girl, trying to lose himself in soft curves and long hair and smooth skin, can chase away the want he has for broad shoulders and narrow hips and rough beards and all that other good stuff. _

_ (“Seriously? Again? I’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow,” Annalise had giggled, swatting his wandering hand away from her still-damp skin. “You’re such a horn-dog.”) _

_ Annalise had looked so sad when he’d told her that they needed to break up, her eyes going all damp and her lip wobbling just-so, but she’d cheered up almost instantly when he’d told her why he wanted to break up. She’d had some weird ideas about going shopping together, like he hadn’t bitched and moaned and complained every single time they’d gone in the past— clearly she’d been watching too much TV. But still. It had been a much better reaction than he expected, and— and his parents are going to take it much better than that.  _

_ They will, Matthew thinks. They have to. They love him. Sure, Maman is deeply religious, but that doesn’t mean a thing. A mother’s love is unwavering. It is.  _

_He takes a deep breath._

* * *

“You sure you have everything?” John asks, for the tenth time that morning. “I’m not turning back once we get going.”

Rook gives one final tug on the knot binding the canopy over the truck bed, and looks up.

“I told you, it’s fine. I got everything I need. We don’t need a whole lot, anyway. We’re going to Calgary, not the middle of nowhere. We really need something, we’ll be able to buy it.”

“You remembered to exchange your money?”

“I have a Canadian bank card.” There’s not a whole lot in that account, but it’s enough for any emergencies. 

“The gifts for your family?”

“In the backseat,” Rook says. “Anyway, I told you, we don’t need to bring gifts.”

“You don’t, but I need to make a good first impression.”

“John—“ Rook starts, and then stops. The caustic comment on his tongue— ‘they’re going to hate you no matter what’— won’t help any, it’s just going to make them both feel like shit and that’s not what he wants. Rook swallows his words instead. Chooses something different to say. “They’re going to like you.” 

“I know,” John says. “I’m incredible.” 

Rook chuckles, and heads toward the passenger door. 

“You are,” he says.

The journey up is pretty painless, as far as long-ass car journeys go. John takes the first five hours, and Rook takes the last. They end up switching at a gas station a little ways northeast of Missoula, after lunch at a roadside diner. Rook’s made this journey alone many times, and this time is somehow better and worse than any time before. Better because he has company, someone to talk to, and ‘cause he’s not driving the whole time, he’s not as exhausted as usual when they pull up at the house just outside Calgary. Worse, because this time (like the first time he’d returned after his self-imposed exile) there’s a knot of fear growing in his stomach, weighing him down. 

It’s fine, he tells himself. It won’t be like last time. Maman knows what to expect. Maybe Rook isn’t as good at hiding his fears as he thinks, because John puts a warm hand on his knee, squeezing gently. 

“Don’t worry,” John says. And then, because he's got this incredible way of understanding Rook's worries: "We can leave early if you want. Still time to turn back now."

"It's fine," Rook replies. The plan is to go back to Fall's End on Friday, and stop in at Naaáhsa's place in Browning for a couple hours on the way home. "We drove all this way. No point in turning back now."

John nods, making a thoughtful noise. Rook stretches as he climbs out of the truck, works out the crick developing in his shoulder while John grabs the bags from the truck bed. 

"Thanks," Rook says, when John pushes his duffel bag into his hands. John doesn't say anything, but lays a supportive hand on his shoulder as they make their way up the porch steps, to the cheery red front door. 

Rook only hesitates for a moment before knocking. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter, y'all are gonna meet rook's family. hopefully, they come across okay- i always have a hard time when lots of characters are introduced at once. next chapter, we're dealing with the emotional distance in the rook clan.

Nínna is the one to open the door. His hair is nearly all silver now, bound back in the ponytail he likes so much, and his wrinkles are ever-deeper. His eyes, are the same as ever, that warm, welcoming black-brown that Rook and his sisters inherited. 

“Good to see you!” he says, that same old smile playing at his lips. His eyes flicker to John. “And you must be the lucky man, right? Come on in, both of you. How was the journey? Did you eat yet?”

“We had lunch on the way,” Rook says. They’d left Fall’s End a little before nine, stopped around one for said lunch, and now it’s pretty much seven. Sky’s pretty dark, but the streetlights and the little lights Maman has strung up around the porch illuminate the house like something out of a Hallmark movie. 

“But did you eat dinner?” Nínna presses, urging them inside. The foyer and living room are empty, but otherwise just as Rook remembers, homely and comforting as always. There are new pictures on the wood-panelled walls: little Éloise and Édouard in their school uniforms on their first day of first grade, one of Melanie at a Canadian Forces event, her dress uniform perfectly neat. Maybe Rook ought to send them one of himself, in his Deputy uniform. John would probably beg to pay for an actual photographer— he’s developed a weird thing about the uniform, just like Rook’s got a weird thing about John in his pressed suits, in full lawyer-mode. 

“No, sir,” John replies. “Please don’t trouble yourself, we can—“

“No, no trouble at all,” Nínna says. “Come on— everybody’s in the diner. We just finished eating, and we got plenty of leftovers. Beef stew, and poor man’s pudding for dessert.”

“Sounds great,” Rook says, because… honestly, it does. “You mind if we put our stuff away first?”

“Sure,” Nínna says. “You’re in Mel’s old room.”

That’s a surprise. 

“Not the den?” Rook asks. 

“No, we figured you might like a real bed for a change. Maddie’s not staying here this year— she and Mark just moved to a real nice place in McKenzie, barely a half-hour drive. So your grandparents have her room, and Mel said she was okay with your room, since she broke up with Bill.”

“Huh,” Rook says. Then, to John: “It’s this way.”

Up the stairs, second door on the right. The room has a really comfortable bed— not quite as big or as soft as John’s bed, but it’s close. It’s definitely better than the pull-out couch in the den, but Melanie’s room lacks the fifty-inch screen, mini-fridge, and the library of movies and games Rook had been kind of looking forward to. 

John sets the bag with the gifts on the armchair, wheels his case next to it, and shugs off his stupidly expensive coat. 

“Your dad seems nice,” John says.

“He is,” Rook replies, tossing his duffel on the bed. He hangs his jacket on a hook near the door, and toes his boots off. “Melanie is pretty awesome, too.”

“And the others?” John asks. 

Rook isn’t sure what to say. Madeline and Mark are nice enough, but Madeline’s still sore over the fact Rook skipped out on their wedding, all those years ago. She’s softened up a little since Éloise and Édouard were born, but… well. There’s still a gulf between them that never used to be there, and he doesn’t know how to bridge that gap. 

“They’re fine,” Rook says. “Just… hm.”

He’s not sure how to explain it. They’re not angry or upset, per se. No, they’re… they’re distant. They’re uncomfortable. He doesn’t think there’s any actual hatred or vitriol, just disappointment and… well. He doesn’t really know what else. 

“Don’t worry about it,” John says, when it becomes clear that Rook doesn’t know what to say. “It’s going to be fine.”

_I hope so_ , Rook thinks. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Rook says. “You done? I’m starving.”

There’s already two steaming bowls of stew at the table when they get downstairs, and a little plate of rolls. Melanie and Nínna are talking, as they so often are, while Maman speaks to her parents, a fluent stream of French. Mark and Madeline are in the kitchen with the twins— Mark’s rinsing dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher, while Madeline does something Rook can’t quite see from his seat at the table, the twins doing their best to help their mom and dad. 

“It’s delicious,” John says, after taking his first mouthful of stew. 

“Glad to hear it,” Nínna replies. “That one’s my favourite to make. Nice and easy— just throw everything in a pot and stick it in the oven.”

“How come you never cook like this?” John nudges Rook with his elbow. 

“Madeline got all the culinary talent in the family,” Rook replies. 

“And I got the brains,” Melanie interjects. “So Matt is the pretty face.”

John laughs, and, okay, that’s a little funny. Rook chuckles a little. 

“Oh, please,” he mutters, breaking a roll in half. 

“You are,” John says, and he goes back to his stew. 

Rook takes their dishes over to Mark when they’re done, and by the time he gets back to the kitchen table, John’s already gone on a full charm offensive, engaging Maman and the others in perfectly-accented, fluent French. Rook just about catches the word “Montréal” coming from his mouth, but little else. Damn it, maybe he should’ve made more of an effort with Duolingo this year…

Maman glances up, then smiles, replies in French. Grandpère’s brow furrows, something like curiosity etched into the deep lines of his face.

“Oui,” she says, and then something Rook doesn’t quite catch.

“Ah!” John nods, and replies with something that sounds effortless and beautiful. Whatever he says, Maman seems to be intrigued. She replies, and just about the only word Rook recognises is “Paris”. John’s answer is a humble-sounding chuckle, accompanied by something that makes Grandmère’s eyes widen, and a stream of surprised French leaves her mouth.

“Harvard,” John replies, and continues speaking. Even though Rook can barely understand a word, John’s speech is enchanting. Honestly, if Rook weren’t sure he’d end up ruining the genial atmosphere John’s somehow managed to create in the space of three minutes, he’d kiss the words right off John’s lips. 

It’s at that moment that Madeline saves Rook’s failing concentration by placing a teapot and a French press on the table. Mark setting out cups and saucers. Éloise brings the sugar-pot, and Édouard the cream, both of them carrying their wares with unusual focus. 

“Mommy, can we have cookies? Na-na said he made some,” Édouard says, once the cream has been safely deposited, tugging at Madeline’s sleeve. 

“Sure, if that’s okay with him,” she replies, and Nínna nods. 

“It is,” he says. “You want some hot chocolate, too?”

“Mama made some,” Éloise says, proudly. “I helped.”

“Oh? That’s awesome!” Melanie exclaims. “You want to sit up here with us grown-ups and drink it?” 

“Nuh-uh,” Édouard says, shaking his head. “Grandpa Chris said he’d teach us chest.”

“Chess,” Éloise corrects him. 

“No, _chest_.”

“It’s chess, dummy!” 

“Hey, let’s not fight—“ Rook starts, and Grandmère steps in smoothly, taking one twin in each arm. 

“Ah, you are ready!” she says. "Let us go!"

The twins are whisked off, and Grandpère follows them, clutching a tray with cookies and mugs of hot chocolate. Rook sighs with relief. Spoiling the kids is great, but discipline or interceding in a fight? He's awful at that. 

Rook stirs a little sugar into his coffee, and turns his attention to the low murmur of conversation around him. 

“So, how did you meet?” Madeline asks John. 

“Bar in Billings,” Rook says, at the precise moment John says “through work”. 

There’s silence for a moment, and then Rook tries again: “yeah, work”, as John says “well, I guess Billings…”

Beside Maman and Nínna, Melanie looks like she’s about to burst into laughter— she knows full well how they met, ‘cause Rook told her the whole story already, since she’s the least likely person in the world to judge his poor life decisions. Madeline looks confused, a wrinkle in her brow, and Rook tries again, doing his best to project an image of virginal innocence.

“We originally met in Billings, but we didn’t start dating until later,” he clarifies. “After we met again through work.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what were you doing in Billings?” Mark asks. 

Having a lot of _really_ good sex, Rook thinks, and definitely does _not_ think about John’s hands roaming his skin. 

“Stopover,” is what Rook actually says. “It was while I was moving down to Fall’s End. The whole journey was, like, eight hours, but I had a lot of stuff to move and I figured splitting the journey into two days was the safest way to do it. I went to a bar, figured I’d play pool or whatever, take some time to relax, and John happened to be there. Spent a good couple hours just talking.”

“It was excellent luck on my part. I was in Billings for a week of business meetings, and was pretty much dying for some conversation that wasn’t about property and insurance,” John adds. Rook’s glad they rehearsed this part on the way over. “See, Hope County is so slow, business-wise, that I have to go hunting for clients in the rest of Montana. ”

“Matt mentioned it was pretty quiet down those parts,” Nínna says. “Not a lot of cases that need the courthouse, right?”

“That’s right,” John says. “My actual legal expertise is in property, but sometimes I assist in hearings. Not that I’m needed very often, Hope being as quiet as it is.”

“Mayor Minkler doesn’t do a whole lot of lawyering these days, either,” Rook says. “Except for the O’Hara thing, I guess.”

Rook pauses. Shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned that. 

“O’Hara?” Nínna presses, clearly interested.

“Nothing big,” Rook says, before John can explain the serial killer Rook never actually mentioned to his family (except Melanie, because she always finds this stuff out somehow). “I’m pretty sure it was the only case this year that ended up in the Hope County court. Everything else was just, like, speeding tickets and stuff. And Sharky Boshaw.”

“Sharky…? The guy who burnt down the trailer park?” Melanie asks, further diverting the conversation. She winks surreptitiously at Rook— he’ll have to do something nice for her later, make it up to her. 

“Boshaw’s an idiot,” John says, just as Rook says “Sharky’s a good guy”. 

John looks at Rook, and shrugs. 

“Each to his own,” John says. “Boshaw is from one of the local trailer-park families. A self-professed pyromaniac.”

“Are there a lot of people like that in Hope?” Madeline asks, and she looks a little worried.

“There are all kinds of people in Hope County,” John replies. “It’s a surprisingly diverse place.”

“They’re all good people,” Rook says. Maman still looks anxious, so Rook pulls out one of his aces. “Hell— John’s brother is the local Baptist minister. Don’t get much more good than that.”

“Oh?” Maman immediately perks up. “A man of the cloth?”

“That’s right,” John answers, genially. “His name is Joseph. I’m sure you’d get on very well.”

The minutes pass slowly, but smoothly. There are a few awkward moments, such as Maman’s hesitant inquiry as to what Joseph thinks about John and Rook. John skips over Joseph’s initial denial and the awkwardness and the many, many arguments. Instead, he gives Maman a winning smile, and four words: “he’s happy for us.” Rook’s careful not to be too touchy-feely with him, doesn’t want to jeopardise whatever this is— it feels like one wrong move, and the fragile peace he’s been building so long is going to collapse, like a house of cards. 

It’s still early when John and Rook take their leave— it’s a little after eight, when Madeline and Mark head home with the twins, and John speaks up. 

“I don’t know about you,” he says, turning to Rook, “but I’m exhausted…” 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Rook admits, and Nínna waves them off. 

“Well, no need to stand on ceremony here. It’s a long day for you— if you’re feeling tired, you oughta get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Melanie adds, with a wide grin. “We’re gonna work you hard tomorrow.”

John waits patiently for Rook to give Maman and Grandmère their customary hug goodnight, both women pressing a soft kiss to his cheek or forehead. Twelve years ago, he’d have returned the gesture, added a soft ‘goodnight’ or ‘love you, too”. Not anymore. 

John is uncharacteristically quiet while they ready themselves for bed. A year ago, that would’ve worried Rook— okay, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t worry him now, but he knows John’s moods and his tells and he’s pretty sure John’s just deep in thought rather than actually upset over anything. They’ve been working on that. Communicating. 

Rook curls up under the sheets, watching John go through his nightly skincare routine, finishing with some fancy-ass beard oils. The oils always end up smeared over the pillows, but Rook can never find it in himself to complain, because the spicy scent of the oils is inextricably linked to John in his head. Makes falling asleep during his night-shift months much easier, when he can bury his face in John’s sheets, imagining that he’s there and not working in the office or meeting his clients. 

John slides into bed, turning off the bedside lamp. 

There’s a moment of silence as he shifts, clearly trying to get comfortable, curling himself around Rook. Rook slings an arm over John’s shoulder, drawing him close. 

“Everything will be fine,” John says, softly. 

Rook doesn’t trust himself to answer. He hopes John’s right, but there’s so much that could go wrong, again. 

As though John can somehow sense Rook’s anxiety, he cards his hand gently through Rook’s hair, presses a soft kiss against his mouth. Then another, and another, until Rook kisses back. 

John tastes mostly of peppermint mouthwash and camomile tea. Rook savours the slow, languid pace John sets, sliding his tongue over John’s, biting gently at his lower lip, tangling his fingers through John’s soft, silky hair. 

Predictably, neither of them is content to take things slow for long. It’s not long before Rook’s kisses turn frantic. John seems to like it, because he groans, quietly, and squeezes Rook’s ass, pulling him so close Rook can feel the heat of John’s arousal through their nightclothes. Which would normally be fantastic, but this time… this time Rook’s not feeling it. The thought of sex in this house makes him feel heavy, somehow. The combination of a shame he’s gotten good at ignoring, and something else he can’t quite place. 

Rook breaks off the kiss, then reaches down and grasps John’s wrist, guiding his hand up to Rook’s upper back instead. 

“Tired?” John asks, softly. Rook nods, even though he’s well aware John can’t see him. 

“Yeah,” Rook replies. “Maybe tomorrow.”

John shifts back a couple inches— he’s still close enough that Rook can feel his body heat, his breath, but they’re not pressed together, no longer half-grinding. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Rook’s mouth. His way of saying “it’s okay” or “no pressure”. It’s not like John hasn’t done the exact same thing to Rook before, usually around religious holidays. 

“Sweet dreams,” John whispers, and Rook lets his eyes slide closed. He takes his hand from John’s shoulder, runs it down John’s arm until he finds his hand, tangling their fingers together. 

“You too.”

Even though it’s quiet and comfortable and Rook’s exhausted, it takes a long time to fall asleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to teamhawkeye, statichvm and chyrstis for helping me with the argument portion of this fic. Maman Rook is very hard for me to write, and I wanted to make sure that she came across as an actual person, rather than a problem.

The next morning sees Rook sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a coffee while John helps Maman with breakfast. Grandmére and Grandpére have both gone to meet Madeline and Mark for breakfast and last-minute shopping, which means there’s only five people in the house. Melanie's sitting at the other side of the table, and Nínna next to her, reading the newspaper. Maman and John are speaking in French, and Rook can’t follow the conversation all that well. He’s pretty sure Maman says something about a precious object, and two babies, and then, in English, “too lame?”. 

John answers with just one word, one that Rook does understand. 

“Oui.”

Rook takes a long sip of coffee, tries to work out the kink in his neck. Pillows in the guest room are too fluffy— nice as they are, he needs something a little more solid these days. 

“You okay there, old man?” Melanie teases, kicking Rook under the table. 

“I’m _thirty_ ,” Rook grouses. “You’re thirty- _five_.”

“I’m young at heart,” Melanie tells him. “For serious, though, I have some tiger balm in my purse if you need it. Can’t have you going full Grinch on us.”

“Since when am I a Grinch?” Rook replies. 

“Since always,” Melanie replies, with a cheeky grin. “Look, you aren’t even wearing your Thanksgiving sweater.”

“Harvest Festival sweater,” Nínna corrects, mildly. And then he continues as he does every year: “It’d be pretty messed up if we celebrated Thanksgiving, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, guess it would,” Rook says, even though Nínna’s insistent terminology doesn’t really change anything— they’re still eating turkey and cranberry and sweet potato, and Maman still insists that they pray before dinner, to thank God and everybody physically present for whatever good things have happened to them in the past year. It’s still Thanksgiving in spirit, even if they call it something different. 

“Not even wearing your Harvest Festival sweater,” Melanie tuts. “Really. Even though Mom made it with so much love for you...”

“I don’t need it yet,” Rook says. He usually wears it after Thanks- uh- Harvest Festival dinner, when he needs to conserve all his spare energy for digesting. 

“You will,” Melanie replies, ominously. “You’re gonna have to _roll_ all the way back to Montana. Mom’s been making cornbread and cookies and Nínna bought your favourite ice cream for dessert.”

Ninna frowns, looking up, clearly only having caught that last part. 

“It’s for everybody,” he says. “I swear to God, Matt, if you eat the entire thing and make yourself sick again…”

“I was ten years old,” Rook protests. “I’m not gonna do that again. C’mon. Cut me some slack.”

“You puked at the dinner table,” Melanie sniggers. “It was so gross.”

“What was gross?” John asks, appearing out of thin air to slide a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Rook. He presses a kiss against Rook’s cheekbone, then settles himself in the chair beside Rook with a plate of his own.

“Nothing,” Rook says, at the same moment Nínna says “old memories”. 

“Memories, huh?” John asks, and he flashes Nínna a winning grin. “Any good ones?”

“A fair few, yeah,” is Nínna’s too-enthusiastic reply. 

“Hey, does John know about the time Nínna tried to teach us archery?” Melanie presses, as Maman comes to the table. She sets a plate in front of Nínna and Mel, then heads back to the kitchen to get her own. 

“No, but—“ Rook begins.

“It sounds fascinating,” John says, leaning forward eagerly. He takes a bite of bacon, then a sip of Rook’s coffee.

“C’mon—“ Rook protests, but Nínna’s eyes have lit up in that way that means he’s got a story coming, come hell or high water. 

“It’s adorable,” Nínna says, a wide smile breaking across his face. “Maybe… what, twenty years ago?”

“Twenty four,” Melanie corrects, sniggering already. 

“Yeah, twenty four… little Matt here was six years old, cute as a button—“

“What _happened_ to him?” Melanie sighs, and Maman gives her a stern look as she sits down with her breakfast. 

“Darling Mattieu is still cute,” she says, arching one blonde eyebrow. 

“He is,” John agrees. 

“Thanks,” Rook mutters. 

“They have to say that,” Melanie replies, and Rook sticks his tongue out at her, and Maman tuts at both of them.

“ _Anyway_ , I thought it’d be a nice idea to take all the kids out, do something different for once,” Nínna continues. “This was in the height of summer, a gorgeous July afternoon, so I thought we’d better do something outdoorsy." He looks at John. "Hey, you know we’re Blackfeet, right?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Matthew mentioned that a while back.”

“Good. So, you know that our ancestors were fantastic archers,” Nínna continues. “I thought I could teach the kids about their heritage in a fun way, so we headed down to the local range for the afternoon, hired out some bows and arrows, and got to work.”

“I had a _great_ time, just so you know,” Melanie says. “I was hitting bullseye after bullseye, and Maddie was pretty good too. But Matt here?” 

Melanie prods Rook in the shoulder, and he sighs, sticks a fork into his food. Concentrates on shovelling bacon and egg into his mouth, rather than listening to his family roast his six-year-old self. Assholes. 

“He couldn’t hit anything,” Nínna manages, between chuckles. “He— he had one of those little kid bows, and those little what’d-you-call-it, those sticky arrows, and the instructor was trying to help him, and— oh, Lord, he missed the target every time. Every damned time. ”

“Cried like a baby,” Melanie adds. “And he wouldn’t stop.”

Nínna nods, wiping moisture from his eyes. 

“Nothing I did helped,” he says. “Poor boy just kept wailing and wailing and wailing. Like…” Nínna snaps his fingers, searching for the right word. “Like a little foghorn. A tiny, three-foot tall _foghorn_.”

John lets out a small, traitorous chuckle, and takes another sip of Rook’s coffee. 

“I was six,” Rook mutters, and he can feel his face burning. 

“He finally calmed down when I bought everybody ice cream. Was quiet as a mouse after that, weren’t you?” Nínna ruffles Rook’s hair. 

“Ice cream, huh?” John looks thoughtful. “I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” Rook asks. 

“You do eat a lot of dessert,” John says, mildly. “I just thought that it might a stress thing.”

“It’s not,” Rook replies. “What do I have to be stressed about?”

“Oh, that makes a lot of sense,” Maman says, as though Rook hadn’t spoken at all. “He had so much trouble in school, and now he’s got the most stressful job your sweet little county has to offer… oh, I dread to think how chéri is eating…” and then the turns to Rook. “You’ve been like that since childhood, haven’t you? Do you remember Monsieur MacIntyre’s farm?”

“What?” Rook blinks, and then he remembers. “Maman, come on, that’s not _fair_ —“

“He wasn’t always afraid of horses, you know,” Maman stage-whispers to John.

“Don't,” Rook pleads. Why do they have to do this? Why now? 

“You’re afraid of horses?” John frowns. “Why’d you decide to live in Montana, of all places?”

“We’re not talking about this,” Rook says. Okay, fine, Montana wasn’t a great idea, but he’s better now, okay? “We aren’t.”

“Is that when he tried to ride Old Peculiar?” Melanie pipes up. 

“Oh…” Nínna at least has the grace to look uncomfortable. “Sorry, Matt.”

“That horse was evil,” Maman shakes her head, strokes Rook’s hand soothingly, like she’s not trying to embarrass him to death. “It threw mon bébé right into the air.”

“He pissed himself,” Melanie adds, gleefully. 

“I was _eight_ ,” Rook hisses. “That horse tried to _kill_ me. Cut me some slack.”

“It’s okay, there aren’t any horses here,” John says, rubbing Rook’s shoulder. He presses another kiss to Rook’s cheek, and Maman looks away. 

“Ha. Ha. You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” Rook replies, through gritted teeth. John clears his throat, carefully removes his hand, and picks up his fork, suddenly extremely invested in his scrambled eggs. 

“Did we buy him ice cream for that, too?” Nínna asks, between bites. He’s frowning. 

“I think so,” Maman replies. “That or cake.”

“That explains a lot,” Nínna says, frowning a little more. 

“Are you done?” Rook groans. “Tell me you’re done.”

“I’m done,” Melanie says, sweetly, and she takes another mouthful of her breakfast. “Unless Maman can think of another story…”

“Oh, I think that’s enough for now,” Maman says, and Rook lets out a sigh of relief. “Perhaps later…”

“Maybe I should pick up another pint of Haagen-Dasz from the store,” Nínna mutters, shooting Rook a furtive glance. 

“Maybe you should pick up two,” Rook mutters, darkly. “Might need three.”

“You know, I think I need to go grab a couple things, too,” John says. “You mind if I join you, sir?”

Nínna looks surprised

“Sure,” he says, and he turns to Maman. “Uh— hon, we need more creamer, too, right?”

“Yes, and cornmeal,” Maman says. “And carrots. There is a list on the refrigerator.”

“Actually, I want to get some stuff, too,” Melanie pipes up. “I’m coming with you guys.”

“You just want to get out of peeling vegetables,” Rook says, gently kicking her shin. She does this every year, and Rook’s the one who always ends up hunched over a pot, helping Maman while Madeline deals with the kids and Nínna does all the last-minute cleaning and fussing over guests. 

“Yeah,” Melanie admits, kicking him right back. “But this time I do actually have to get tampons."

“I’ll be okay,” Maman says, exaggeratedly loudly. She presses akiss against Rook’s temple. “My sweet ange is going to help me, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Rook says, because it’s not like he can refuse. It’s practically tradition at this point. Doesn’t matter how mad he is, he can’t risk rocking the boat, destroying the fragile peace he’s built. 

Before heading out, Nínna makes a point of asking which flavour ice-cream Rook wants, which means he at least feels bad about humiliating Rook. Same can’t be said for Melanie, who’s busy teaching John the proper way to wear a toque, or for Maman, who’s busy crowding the kitchen table with pots and knives and chopping boards.

“Dulce de leche,” Rook replies, not bothering to look up while he’s scrubbing the potatoes in the sink. “Or butter pecan. Get John to pick something if they don’t have those.”

“Okay,” Nínna says, and there’s the low bleeping that comes with typing on an old Nokia. “Anything else?” 

“Actually, I need condoms,” Rook says, mostly out of spite because he shouldn’t be the only one left feeling embarrassed, damn it. “I forgot to buy some on the way up.” 

There’s a pause. And then, slightly strained: “Okay.” More button-pressing. Nínna clears his throat. “Uh… any kind?” 

Rook pauses. Okay, Nínna’s actually humouring him. Making him feel a little bad for asking in the first place. He tosses a clean potato to the side, picks up a dirty one, and gets to work.

“You know what? Just tell John to get them. He knows what I like.”

“Okay,” Nínna says, and this time he sounds relieved. There’s a warm hand patting his shoulder. “See you later, kid. Don’t let your mom do all the hard work.”

Then they’re gone, Nínna and Mel and John filing out to the entrance hall, and the front door slams shut, leaving just Rook and Maman and the dulcet tones of Orville Peck on the radio. 

Rook gives the potatoes one final rinse when he’s done, then brings the colander to the table, moving a smaller pot to one of the chairs so he can set it down. Maman’s nearly halfway through preparing the squash, slicing neatly with her sharp knife. Rook picks up a safety peeler, and gets to work, catching the peels in a plastic bag on his lap, then setting the peeled potatoes in a nearby mixing-bowl when they’re done.

There’s a cool silence for a few minutes. Orville Peck gives one last heartfelt exclamation: _cross my heart, now I hope to die_ , and then the radio moves on to an old Alanis Morissette song. 

“John seems nice,” Maman says, when Rook’s halfway through the potatoes. He glances up. She’s looking directly at him, something he can't quite place in her expression.

“He is,” Rook replies, and he picks up another potato. 

There’s silence for another minute. Rook sets down the peeled potato, ignores the way the starch is drying all gritty on his skin, and picks up a new one. Peel, peel, peel. In the bowl. New potato. Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Are you upset, chou?” Maman asks. 

“Now, that implies that you think there’s something I oughta be upset over,” Rook replies, coolly. 

“Aha, so you _are_ upset,” Maman says. “Is it because of breakfast? It was only a little harmless fun, you know.”

“Harmless fun?” Rook scowls at her. “You didn’t have to humiliate me like that. In front of John, too?”

“We are your _parents_ ,” Maman says, as though that’s a reasonable explanation. “Of course we have to.”

“You don’t do that to Melanie,” he says. “You don’t do it to Maddie. The hell are you doing it to me for?”

“John is the first person you’ve brought home to us,” Maman pleads. “Of course we must tell him everything! I was going to take out your baby pictures at lunch, show him just how cute you were. It would be a _crime_ if he didn't see your adorable little face. I think I still have the pictures from that dance recital..."

Rook rolls his eyes. Fuck it. She can finish the potatoes herself if she’s going to be like this. He gets up, setting the peeler down, and strides to the sink to wash the starch from his hands. 

Maman rises too, and pushes a fluffy teatowel into his hands as soon as he flicks the faucet off. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrows drawn low. 

“Oh, Mattieu, don’t run away from me again,” she pleads. “Why are you behaving like this? You never used to be so angry. Or so cold.”

“I’m cold?” Rook demands, annoyance igniting into anger. “Are you _serious_?”

“I… yes?” Maman blinks, looking utterly confused. “You rarely visit, you barely call… it’s almost as though you don’t care, chou, that you don’t want to be part of our family any more.”

“I don’t care?” Rook scoffs. “The hell are you talking about? You’re the one who doesn’t care.”

“Oh, chou,” Maman looks distraught. “You know that isn’t true— you know I love you.”

Rook stares at her. She really seems to believe it. The hell does that come from, after so many years of denial? Of flat-out mourning a son that still lives?

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

“Don’t be silly,” Maman says, and her eyes are going all bright and teary. “Of course you do!”

“How can I?” Rook demands, and the anger burns white-hot in his chest, his hands shaking, and the words spill out past his teeth and tongue before he can think them through. “Seriously— how? You _cried_ when I came out. You didn’t speak to me for an entire _week_. You wouldn’t even _look_ at me. Even now, you can’t deal with it. I’ve seen how you look at me and John. How you can’t even say what he is. You rejected me! What part of that am I supposed to see as love?”

Maman’s eyes are open wide, salt water slowly rolling over her flushed cheeks, her mouth slightly agape. 

“I—“ she manages. “No, that isn’t…”

“It _is_!” Rook insists. 

“It is _not_!” Maman shakes her head. “I could never reject you, chou, never ever, _ever_.”

Rook shakes his head. Coming back here was a mistake. Should’ve done his usual thing, three days of awkward, lonely silence, should've left John in Fall’s End. He takes a couple steps toward the door, fully intending to go pack their bags, call Nínna and say that he and John are leaving, but Maman catches his arm and she _pulls_. He turns, glares at her as he shakes her hand off— but her grip is tight and her mouth is tighter still. 

“I was so afraid,” Maman says, her nails digging into Rook’s skin. “Chou, you are so young, you don’t know what it’s like…”

He doesn’t know? Know what? He’s been called a faggot plenty times before. He’s been in fights ‘cause some drunk asshole didn’t like the way Rook slung his arm around his partner, on the other side of the street. He’s had landlords and employers suddenly retract contract renewals ‘cause he mentioned a boyfriend at the wrong time. 

“Of course I was upset— I love you, but I knew my scripture…” Maman continues, and Rook has to bite his tongue ‘cause there’s a lot he could say about that, and there’s no coming back from some of those remarks. “…The thought that you might not join us in Heaven was a terrible thing! Now, I have spoken to many pastors, and many friends, and many people like you, and I cannot say I know all the answers, but— but please, Mattieu, you must understand that I love you dearly— I could not stop loving you if I tried. You are my little boy, even now you are a man, even if you turn away from me.”

“…Doesn’t make it right,” Rook says, and his voice quavers and, damn it, he’s crying too. Maman steps a little closer, runs her hands over his shoulders and up his throat and jaw until her cool fingers stroke his cheeks, thumbing away the tears he’s trying to blink out of existence. 

“There were so many other things too, chouchou…” Maman shakes her head and sniffles. “You remember that I was a hospice nurse sometimes… oh, there were so many men like you in my ward, so thin, so sick, like skeletons… and to think you’d end up like that, instead of having a happy family and your good health? It broke my heart!”

“Jesus Christ,” Rook mutters. There’s so _many_ things wrong with that scenario, he has no idea where to start. “I’m not going to get AIDS. Are you kidding me? And— you know adoption is a thing, right? For God’s sake, that’s so _unreasonable_ …”

“I know, I know,” Maman says. “But I was afraid for you, and fear doesn’t care about reason. When you left, I was even more afraid— I had no idea where you were, or if you were alive or not— and it’s the not knowing that was the worst thing, chéri, the worst thing of all. Every night I would lie awake, unable to sleep because I did not know. Perhaps you were well, but perhaps you were sick too, perhaps you were in pain or afraid, or even— even worse. And I did not know.” 

“I’m not going to apologise,” Rook says, choking on his words. 

“Then neither shall I,” Maman declares. “You did as you thought you needed to. And I did as I thought I should.”

There’s not much that Rook can say to that. Maman stands on her tip-toes, pulls Rook’s head forward so she can plant a kiss on his forehead. There’s quiet for a long minute, then two. Maman lets go, and Rook wipes his eyes with his tea-towel, closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths. 

“I’m going to ask him to marry me,” Rook says, when he thinks he can speak without sounding like he’s going to start crying again. 

There’s quiet for a moment, and then Maman speaks again, her voice soft.

“He seems nice,” she says, and pauses. “A rich lawyer with the Lord in his heart… I hope he’ll make a fine husband for you.”

“I have the ring with me,” Rook says. It’s a nice ring, too. Silver, with an engraved band in the middle so it’ll catch the light, exactly the kind of thing John would love. “Dinner on Wednesday. That French place you like.”

Maman smiles, makes a choked sound, and wipes her eyes again. 

“How lovely,” she says, and she reaches out, squeezes Rook’s hands fondly. 

There’s a long, quiet moment that stretches between them, but for once it doesn’t feel distant. It doesn’t feel cold. 

It almost feels like it used to, before he opened his mouth and ruined everything. Like when he used to sit next to Maman and watch her sew. 

“Aha, there’s my handsome boy. Now, why don’t you finish peeling those potatoes, hm?” Maman says, reaching out to give his cheek a little pinch, and Rook nods. He slides back into his seat, and Maman turns the radio up a couple notches. Seems like Alanis finished her song a while back, and now Mary Lambert’s voice carries through the air, a little crackly through the speakers. 

_ Love is patient… Love is kind… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re wondering, at the beginning Maman says something along these lines to John: “Il est précieux pour moi— mon doux bébé. Tu l'aime?” Matt is just _terrible_ at French. I don't know if that's correct, much less correct in the Canadian dialect. I studied European French for like three years in high/middle school, and I haven't touched the language in the last ten years. Please forgive me.....
> 
> This chapter was in some ways very easy and very hard to write. It was very personal. As you might be able to tell, as a gay woman from a pretty religious background I have a lot of hang-ups, and writing Matt has been a way to work through some of those hang-ups. The part with Maman's conversation pretty much wrote itself, but the rest was a struggle.
> 
> I originally was going to cut John and Matt's visit short so this kind of scene wouldn't happen at all, but i figured that it was an important part in Rook's character development. His family and sexuality issues made up such a huge part of the previous story, I wanted to see him start to heal a bit here, especially since the _next_ fic is going to be set about ten years down the line and I fully intend on having both John and Matt as emotionally healthy as possible since Matt is gonna get struck by an awful bout of 'flu/laryngitis. 
> 
> Coming up next chapter: Thanksgiv- uh..... Harvest Festival dinner (sorry Nínna), followed by the the actual real plot with Joseph.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting out of control, so i split it in half. the next part (concerning Harvest Festival dinner and Joseph's phone call) should be coming soon!

_Nínna is wrong. If anything, the morning cements that Matthew fucked up, that nothing is the same any more._

_Nínna smiles at Matthew when he comes into the kitchen, a sad, strained, awkward smile._

_Maman kisses Matthew on the cheek, tells him ‘good morning’, but she doesn’t say anything else, and… well. Matthew can’t think of anything to say, so he just chugs some orange juice and leaves._

_Normally Maman would scold him, insist that he eats something more substantial, but today she lets him go with nary a word. Is she trying to give him space? Show that she respects his 'life choices'? Or does she not care anymore?_

_Matthew isn’t sure and he doesn’t want to ask, and the question rattles around his head for hours, days, weeks, longer._

_The stifling silence continues, simultaneously suffocating and fragile. On and on and on it goes, long after Matthew leaves the house, long after he decides to try again, and it’s still going strong even now he’s a grown-ass adult and he’s ten hours away and he’s got himself a guy who’s completely crazy about him (and sometimes just plain_ crazy _)._

_He's sick of it._

* * *

  
John’s in a good mood when he gets back from the store, helping Nínna and Mel with the extra groceries. Madeline’s clan have long since arrived, the kids and grandparents in the lounge, Madeline and Mark in the kitchen, helping with the vegetables. 

“Did you get everything?” Maman asks. 

“We sure did,” is Nínna’s answer. “You want the carrots right now?”

“Yes, please, Mark will start them after the parsnips.” 

Mark smiles and nods, even though Matt can see him dying internally. They don’t speak a whole lot, but it’s kind of obvious that he’s a pushover. Which isn’t really surprising, considering how strong-willed Madeline is. 

John saunters over, a big smile on his face and a small paper bag in his hand. 

“How’s prep going?” he asks, slinging an arm around Rook’s shoulder, leaning in to kiss his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Rook replies. He’s finally done with the potatoes— Maman made him prepare three pots— and now he’s dealing with sweet potatoes. Which… he doesn’t remember the family having last year or the year before or any year before that, but he’s certainly not complaining. 

John frowns, pulling back slightly. 

“Are you okay? You seem a little…”

“I’m fine,” Rook replies, and then as a distraction: “what’d you buy?”

“Exactly what you asked,” John replies, with a devilish grin. He holds the bag out. “Take a look.”

Rook does. There’s a box of chocolates, as well as banana-flavoured Durex and a small tube of lube.

“I hope you’re not expecting to get lucky,” he replies, raising an eyebrow. John frowns. 

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’ve never willingly eaten banana candy,” he says. 

“Doesn’t have to go near your mouth,” John tries, and that’s when Madeline pipes up, loudly. 

“Not in the kitchen, please,” she says, not looking up from the green beans she’s de-stringing, and Rook scowls. As much as he understands that maybe it’s an inappropriate topic, regardless of how vaguely they’re trying to be, she’s never complained about listening to Melanie talking about her male lovers. 

“My apologies,” John says, acting every inch an embarrassed gentleman. “I’ll put these upstairs.” He turns his attention to Maman. “Would you like any help down here?”

Maman smiles. 

“It is fine,” she says. “We are nearly finished. Feel free to make yourself at home— Chris, why don’t you join Mama and Papa in the living room?”

“Does this mean I’m on coffee duty?” Melanie sighs. 

“Yes, yes it does,” Maman answers, and John immediately steps in, smiling brightly. 

“Then I’ll help you bring the coffee to the living room, and then we can all enjoy the afternoon sooner,” he says, and there isn’t really a way for anybody to argue with him. 

Dinner is takeout from Harvey’s: burgers and poutine, while a few items are cooking in the oven— pigs in blankets, dinner rolls, a particularly delicious-looking pecan-pumpkin pie. The evening goes pretty well, except for one moment where John asks to try Rook’s spicy chicken poutine. Rook loads up his fork, like he always does when John wants a bite, feeding it to his boyfriend, and he can’t help but notice that Maman and Grandmère look away, that Madeline and Grandpère start frowning. 

“What d’you think?” Nínna asks, as John chews thoughtfully. 

“Honestly, I’m mad,” John says, shaking his head as he swallows. “It’s delicious. Why didn’t _we_ think of it first? Seriously, cheese, fries, gravy... It's a match made in heaven."

“You know, that’s exactly what I said when I had my first poutine,” Nínna replies, a huge grin stretching across his face. “Isn’t that right, Cammie?” 

Maman glances over, looking mildly uncomfortable. She quickly smiles. 

“It is,” she coos. “And it was also the reason you started looking for work up here, wasn’t it?”

“There were other reasons, too!” Nínna protests. “Maple syrup, beaver tails, Montreal-style bagels, snow taffy, nanaimo bars, and—“ 

“And me, I hope,” Maman swats Nínna’s shoulder playfully. 

“And you,” Nínna agrees. “And your family, of course. And the healthcare. And Tim Horton’s. And—“ 

“Enough!” Maman giggles, with a wave of her hand. She presses a kiss to his cheek, then reaches for the bacon poutine in front of Melanie, and the rest of the evening is a pleasant blur. 

There are a couple games of Uno, several cookies and copious amounts of hot chocolate shared with the twins before they go home, followed by an hour or two vegging out in the family room, leaning heavily against John while watching some TV movie, their hands loosely clasped together. Small talk. Maman’s chamomile tea. It’s comfortable. It’s nice. 

John kisses Rook’s cheek when they pry themselves off the couch, head upstairs to bed. Kisses him again after they’ve both brushed their teeth, when Rook’s tongue still tingles from the mouthwash. While John’s massaging serums and lotions into his skin, he glances over at Rook, tugging on sweatpants. 

“Those would look better on the floor,” John says, and Rook doesn’t _quite_ realise why he said that until he spots the condoms and lube from earlier sitting on the bedside table. It looks like Rook's petty requests gave John ideas. While Rook feels a lot better than last night, and while John is gorgeous, half-undressed as he is, Rook’s just not feeling it. He’s exhausted: preparing vegetables and sobbing into Maman’s shoulder are surprisingly tiring ways to spend an afternoon. 

“I know,” Rook says, and he pauses. 

He doesn’t want to turn John down, not _exactly_. Maddie and Mel have definitely done the dirty under this roof— well, Mel has, anyway. Why shouldn’t he? As long as they’re discreet, make sure not to leave a mess behind, it should be fine, right? It’s perfectly natural to want some intimacy with a lover, especially when far from home. They wouldn’t be doing anything wrong, not really. 

…But he’s _tired_. 

“Let’s save it for the morning,” Rook finishes, tying the drawstring in a loose knot. John looks disappointed, but nods. Then a wide grin splits his face. 

“You know, I’ve been meaning to try some new ways of waking you up…” John says, in his sultriest tone, raising an eyebrow. His gaze drops meaningfully from Rook’s face to his hips and back up again. 

“You can try whatever you like,” Rook tells him. “As long as it’s quiet, and you clean up after.” 

John practically bounces his way to bed after that, happily snuggling in close as he settles down under the sheets. And although it takes Rook a while to drift off, like it always does, there’s an ease, a peacefulness he hasn’t felt in this house in… what? A decade? Longer? At seventeen, he'd have never dreamed of this. Being welcomed with open arms, sleeping next to the man of his dreams. 

His last memory of the night is staring at the moonlight streaking between the blinds, his fingers slowly combing through John’s soft, lush hair. 

It's good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this took a lot longer than planned bc i kept thinking of cute family moments and........... yeah. sorry, but i just love writing matt's family. almost as much as writing matt himself. 
> 
> anyway, the plot finally kicked in, so i hope you enjoy!

_Matthew doesn’t bother turning on the light when he gets into his room, nor cleaning like Nínna suggested. Instead, he closes the door and flops onto his bed. He wraps himself in blankets that he really should’ve washed two weeks ago but didn’t, buries his head under his pillow, and doesn’t listen to what’s happening in the rest of the house._

_He sends a text message to Melanie: i think i fucked up. She replies in seconds, but his eyes are getting all hazy and hot, so he ends up squinting at the screen for a solid minute, the haziness getting worse and worse until hot water rolls down one cheekbone, collects in a nook at the bridge of his nose. He wipes his eyes, but it doesn’t help any: the tears just keep coming and his breath keeps catching and his stomach is all tight and heavy and he doesn’t want to be here any more._

_Time passes, seconds like hours and hours like minutes._

_Nínna comes in later. A quiet click when he opens Matthew’s bedroom door, the springs in the mattress settling as he sits on the mattress._

_“Hey,” he says, softly. A hand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through the comforter. “You okay?”_

_Matthew doesn’t trust his lungs any more. They’ve spent the last God-knows-how-long shuddering instead of functioning, and now it hurts. Still, he manages to make a sound that could be a ‘yes’ or a ‘nngh’ and doesn’t dissolve into more sobbing._

_“I’m sorry about earlier,” Nínna says, and his other hand finds Matthew’s head, gently stroking Matthew’s hair like he’s a kid again. “Your mom will come around, I promise.”_

_Matthew doesn’t reply. Can’t reply._

_“I’m happy as long as you’re happy,” Nínna says. “Remember that, okay?”_

_Matthew makes a noise that could be acknowledgement or agreement, but mostly just means ‘please leave me alone’, and Nínna seems to understand because he rises and heads to the door, before turning back._

_“Try to sleep. I promise, it’ll be better in the morning.”_

* * *

Rook awakens to a gentle kiss to his mouth. Then another. Then another, more persistent one, a not-so-gentle bite to his lower lip. 

“M’ning,” Rook murmurs, and he hears John’s soft laugh. He cracks his eyes open, rubbing crusted sleep from his eyes. He squints at the bedside clock: eight-oh-three.

“Morning,” John replies. He looks so good in the morning, his hair falling all over the place, his face almost entirely unguarded.

The kisses trail down and down, John’s wicked tongue flicking over a nipple, his teeth nibbling at Rook’s hipbone, fingers tugging at the waistband of his sweats. To his mingled joy and horror, Rook realises exactly where this is going. 

Everybody should be eating breakfast downstairs, so as long as they’re not loud, it should be fine, right? Nobody’s going to hear. A smaller, less needy part of his brain points out that this is a bad idea, mostly because they’ll have to clean the sheets and they’ll have to go through the kitchen to get to the laundry room and there’s no way to avoid awkward questions. 

Rook ignores that part of his brain. Orgasm good, laundry unimportant. John’s fingers skim the fabric of Rook’s waistband, but no further.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” John mutters. He crawls back up, presses another kiss to Rook’s mouth. 

Rook smiles against his lips. He slides a hand into John’s soft, messy hair. He slips his other over John’s shoulder, eagerly pulling him close. John groans, grinds down, deepens their kiss. (A strange, but welcome change from Luke, who’d refused to ever kiss Rook before he’d brushed and flossed.)

Rook reaches for the lube bottle on the nightstand— he’s not totally sure what John’s thinking, but it’s probably either going to involve thighs or hands— and that’s when they’re interrupted by a loud knocking at the door. 

“You boys up yet?” Nínna’s voice booms through the door. He knocks again. “You better hurry if you want breakfast-- Mel’s making pancakes!”

Rook closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. Mel’s pancakes are the best. Especially the blueberry ones. And the chocolate. And she’s notoriously picky when it comes to timing— if she’s started cleaning up by the time they get downstairs… 

John glances at the door, then down at Rook. He frowns.

“You want pancakes, don’t you?” he whispers. Rook nods, silently. John sighs and rolls off Rook, as quiet footsteps start to retreat down the hall.

“Dad, tell Mel I want chocolate,” Rook calls. 

“Will do. Same for John?” Nínna asks, his footsteps stopping. 

“Yes, please, sir,” John replies, not sounding particularly enthusiastic. He’s crouching over his suitcase, a wine-red cotton shirt in one hand, a pair of black jeans slung across an arm.

“Okay, see you boys in a few,” Nínna replies, and then there’s the familiar sound of his footsteps on the stairs. 

John dresses silently, the way he always is when he’s annoyed. He scowls when he buttons his jeans, clearly still half-aroused. He stomps his way to the dresser, picks up his comb and the little bag that contains his toiletries, and shuts the bedroom door behind him with more force than strictly necessary.

While John’s gone, Rook readies his own clothes. This time he forgoes his usual plaid for a plain tee and Maman’s ugly, handmade Harvest Festival sweater. He’s rolling everything into a towel when John returns, significantly more put-together, but no less irritated.

“Maybe we could go to a hotel one night,” Rook says, mostly to break the silence, hopefully cheer John up a little. “Might be nice to have a night to ourselves, no interruptions.” 

John’s quiet for a moment, and then he speaks. 

“Might be,” he says, sounding more thoughtful than annoyed. 

“We’re already going out Wednesday,” Rook adds. “Y’know, to the French place I told you about. The good one.”

It’s a bit of a gamble, considering the ring box hidden in his duffel, but… well. They’re a serious thing. Even if John turns down the proposal, they could still have a couple hours’ fun in the sack. Doesn’t have to be awkward. And if things do go sour, one of them could stay overnight, and they’re heading back home on Friday anyway so it’s not like it’s the end of the world. Calgary has an airport and a coach station— Rook can take the long way home if he really needs. He’s got a couple cousins in Browning who owe him a favour or two. It’ll be fine, even if it all goes to shit. 

“French?” John nods to himself, a small smile quirking at his lips. “All right, Mr. Matthew. We can pick up some flowers, some chocolate, some champagne, make a date night of it.”

“Different condoms, too,” Rook adds. “I wasn’t kidding about the banana.”

John sighs, but he’s smiling wider now. 

“Different condoms,” he agrees. “And I get to choose the hotel.”

“Okay.” Knowing John, he wants somewhere fancy. Silk sheets and velvet drapes and excellent soundproofing. 

“Then I’ll see you downstairs,” John says, looking almost as happy as he did when Rook opened his eyes that morning. He presses a kiss to Rook’s cheek, humming to himself as Rook locks the bathroom door behind him. 

Rook showers as quickly as he can, tugging his clothes over still-damp skin. He brushes and gargles and flosses, doesn’t bother combing his hair— it’s too short to really tangle. 

When Rook enters the kitchen, there’s a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes waiting next to John, a cup of coffee just cold enough to drink in one long sip. Maman smiles brightly at Rook when he sits, and Grandmère presses a powdery kiss to his cheek. The pancakes are really good, sweet and fluffy and delicious.

“Thank you, Mel,” he calls, and Mel gives him a soapy thumbs-up from the sink. 

“You’re on dinner wash-up duty!” she shouts, gleefully. Rook rolls his eyes. Figures Mel would have some kind of hidden agenda. Not that it really matters— he’s always on dinner wash-up duty. 

The next couple hours are spent alternating between vegging out in the living room and entertaining the twins when they arrive with Madeline and Mark. Madeline quickly bustles into the kitchen with Maman , swiftly dragging Melanie in with her. Rook’s tried to help in the past, but he knows he’s a terrible cook. There’s a reason he’s usually relegated to clean-up. 

Nínna does a lot of cooking the rest of the year, always takes over the kitchen on Indigenous People’s Day, dragging Rook in to help him do the menial things, like washing the berries for the upside-down cake or kneading bannock dough. The last couple years, Mark’s been roped in for more hands-on work, like carving the roasted meat once Nínna’s done with it, quietly listening as Nínna rambles pleasantly about his family back on the Rez and his memories of cooking with his family. 

“Gotta do your part, kid,” Nínna always said, no matter how much Rook protested as a kid. “Your mom and your sisters worked hard yesterday for our harvest festival, so we gotta work and pay ‘em back today.” 

Maybe it’s an odd compromise to others, but it works for their family. Maman gets her traditional Thanksgiving-by-another-name on a holy day dear to her, and Nínna gets his cultural celebration on a day important to him. 

Rook can’t help but wonder if John’s going to be brought in to help, too, or if Nínna’s planning on treating him with kid gloves. It’s hard to tell. It would be nice to have John working beside him, listening to Nínna, taking part in something Rook had missed more than he was willing to admit during his self-imposed exile. Maybe he’ll ask Nínna later… 

* * *

The hours pass slowly, but pleasantly. There’s some TV special about the origins of Harvest Festival which Nínna insists on watching while John teaches the twins about the importance of poker faces during a particularly intense round of Uno. Rook fields questions about law enforcement and emergency services during Paw Patrol: “No, Édouard, we don’t have police dogs down in Hope. We’re too small. They’ve got some in Helena, though. Maybe Missoula and Billings, too.” 

Eventually, Nínna does the one thing Rook’s been dreading since they arrived. He brings out the baby pictures. 

“I hate you,” Rook mutters, as Grandmère makes her way over to the couch. She perches herself next to Nínna, slipping on her big, Coke-bottle reading glasses so she can see every photo in its full, slightly unfocused glory. 

John peers over Nínna's shoulder, eagerly drinking in the sight of every photograph. Grandmère coos appropriately over the photos, complimenting Naaáhsa’s beading and embroidery skills. At least one person in this family has manners… 

"This one is from the dance contest in ninety-eight. Madeline came second place," Nínna says. He pauses, thinking hard. "Actually... I think that might've been the last year Matt competed. Look, he's this one." 

"Oh, I see," John says, nodding intently. "How'd he do?" 

"Terribly," Nínna informs him. "He was completely out of time. All those classes, wasted. Still, my parents were so proud of him for trying. My mother slaved over that outfit for weeks. She even insisted on braiding his hair for him, mm-hm. She was devastated when we had to cut it."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, why did you...?" John begins, cautiously.  
"Ask Melanie," Rook interjects, darkly. 

As if on cue, Melanie immediately shouts from the kitchen, which just proves she's been eavesdropping the whole time: "it was an accident! It's not my fault the gum stuck to so much!"

"It was a very fortunate accident," Grandpère adds, not looking up from his newspaper. "Short hair is much better for a man. Much more respectable." 

Nínna's mouth tightens, but he doesn't speak. He never does when Grandpère says those things. Too afraid of conflict. 

"I was actually thinking of growing it out again," Rook says, breaking the sudden silence. It isn't a bad idea. It might even work this time. He doesn't know anybody who chews gum in Fall's End, and if he wears a ponytail or a bun there's next to no chance of it getting destroyed. 

Ninna looks surprised for a moment, before a small smile spreads across his mouth.

That’s not the end of the awkward moments, either. At some point, there’s a gay joke in the shitty movie playing on the TV, and that seems to prompt Mark’s curiosity. He looks John, then at Rook, raises one eyebrow quizzically. 

"Out of curiosity," Mark mumbles, leaning forward to speak more quietly. "Which one of you is... you know, the man?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing," Rook replies, with an forced laugh. "I mean, Maddie definitely wears the trousers, right?"

Mark shuts his mouth, flushing a deep red. He doesn't talk to Rook again, which suits him just fine. Mark's not a bad guy, but he's annoying. And he has no backbone.

Madeline turns and glares at Rook from the kitchen island, clearly having heard everything. He'll pay for that comment later. He smiles brightly at her, curling an arm around John, pulling him closer.

"Stop antagonising your family," John says, softly, patting Rook's cheek before kissing him on the mouth again. Then, more loudly: "More coffee, anybody?"

It doesn’t take long until Rook’s called to the kitchen to help bring all the dishes out to the dining room. He can’t help but notice that this year, the sweet potato is creamed rather than roasted, topped with a metric ton of browned marshmallow, there’s a rich-looking baked mac and cheese, and a big bowl filled with chunks of warm skillet-baked cornbread. Suspiciously Southern-style cooking. 

“What’s this?” he asks, picking up a dish filled with some kind of cabbage, chunks of bacon and caramelised onion mixed through. Nínna picks up a bowl of stuffing balls in one hand, green bean casserole in the other.

“They’re collard greens,” Nínna says, at Rook’s quizzical glance. “Now go put it out before it gets cold.”

It’s not long before the dining room table is fully loaded, and Rook’s slipping into the seat next to John. The twins are impatient, snatching pieces of roast potato and pigs-in-blankets whenever the grown-ups aren’t looking. And soon enough, Nínna’s bringing through the turkey, Maman bustling through with a carving-fork and sharp knife held carefully in her hands. 

Nínna seats himself next to Melanie, Maman taking the spot closest to the kitchen. And, as per family tradition, she starts giving thanks. 

“I am thankful to have my family with me,” Maman announces, just as she has for each of the past five years. She looks around the table. “I am thankful for each and every one of you, and I am so grateful that we’re all together. I pray that we don’t spend another Harvest Festival apart.”

“I’m thankful for Camille,” Nínna says. “I don’t know where I’d be without her.” 

Maman giggles, and Nínna presses a soft kiss to her mouth. 

“I’m thankful for all this delicious food,” Melanie announces. “Especially the chocolate cake Matt doesn’t know about.”

“The what?” Rook asks. 

“Nothing!” Melanie sings. 

“I’m thankful for our family,” Mark mumbles, barely audible.

“I’m thankful for Mommy and Daddy. And Transformers,” Èdouard says. 

“No, I’m thankful for Mommy and Daddy!” Èloise squeaks, indignantly. “And Transformers are stupid!” 

That kicks off a small argument, which goes on for several painful minutes, which is eventually settled by Mark picking Èdouard up and silently switching their seats. 

“Stop, both of you,” he grunts, and somehow they do. Then it’s Madeline’s turn. 

“I’m thankful that we can all be here together,” she says. “One big happy family.” 

Grandmère thinks hard for a moment. 

“I am thankful for you all. It has been so long since we were last together… darlings, you should come to Montréal this Christmas. Or perhaps Saint-Jean-Baptiste.”

“That would be lovely,” Maman sighs. Nínna looks uncomfortable. He hates visiting Montréal. Rook’s not certain and he hasn’t asked, but he’d be willing to bet that Nínna dislikes Maman's family. Or that they dislike him, probably for being Native and American and an Anglophone. Would explain why they're always so weird around Matt and Maddie and Mel, too.

“I am thankful for our family,” Grandpère says, breaking Rook out of his train of thought. Grandpère's looking around the table at each person with a soft, fond smile. “All of us together again. Perhaps next year we will be even greater in number— a nice young man for darling Mèlanie, and a nice young lady for dear Matthieu.”

  
Rook bites his tongue, cold rage settling heavy in his stomach. Of course Grandpère would be in denial, even now. He always is when something doesn’t go his way, whether it’s Melanie’s career or Madeline’s parenting choices. God knows how or why Grandmère puts up with his shit. 

  
Across the table, Nínna looks deeply uncomfortable but doesn’t say anything. He never does. He likes to keep the peace. He meets Rook’s eyes with a silent apology. John clears his throat, expertly pretending that nothing happened. 

  
“I’m thankful to have the opportunity to meet you all,” John says. “I’m thankful for meeting Matthew, and I’m thankful for my brothers. To family!”  
“To family!” comes the scattered reply, a half-hearted toast, and then it’s Rook’s turn. 

  
“I’m thankful for you, John,” he says. “I’m thankful that we met, and for every moment we’ve spent together since. I hope that we spend many more moments together in the future.” 

  
Mostly as a fuck-you to Grandpère, Rook leans in and presses a small kiss to John’s mouth. It doesn’t last long— barely a second, but it’s in full view of everybody sat around the table. 

  
“Thank you, John,” Rook adds, in the moment of silence that follows. “I love you.”  
Is it petty? Yes. Is it worth it? **_Yes._**

  
Grandpère looks annoyed, Grandmère and Maman sad. Melanie has a grin plastered across her face, Nínna and Mark awkwardly focusing on the food loaded on the table. Madeline looks furious, the twins bored— they’re much more interested in the mac and cheese than who Uncle Matt likes kissing at the dinner table. And then there’s John, a small smile across his face, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. 

“Happy Harvest Festival!” Melanie prompts another toast, this one much more successful than the last. 

Maman recovers enough composure to murmur a short, French Grace, and then it’s time to eat. Nínna takes his sacred turkey-carving duty very seriously, depositing perfect slices of meat on every plate as Maman fusses over everybody’s drinks and, later, their food. 

“Oh, darling, are you sure that’s enough?” Maman asks, and without asking for a reply, spoons another helping of mac and cheese onto the already-precarious pile on Rook’s plate. “I know this is your favourite, you don’t need to put on appearances for the sake of—“ a slight hesitation “—um, John.” 

It isn’t really surprising that she can’t say the word ‘boyfriend’, but this is the closest she’s come to actually acknowledging any of Rook’s relationships after Annalise. Maman continues, quickly adding five extra pigs in blankets, and an extra pile of stuffing before Rook manages to wave her arm away.

“Maman, I’m fine,” he says, trying to soften his words with a soft smile. “I need to save room for dessert, you know?”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t make yourself sick,” Maman says. “You have plenty of time here to eat to your heart’s content— I’ll make sure you have plenty of cookies to see you through that awful journey home.” 

“You don’t have to,” Rook replies, mostly because he’s supposed to turn her down. She does this every year— sends him back to Montana with several tupperware containers of cookies. Too many for even Rook to eat by himself, so they often ended up redistributed to neighbours and colleagues. 

Rook smiles, fondly, and sticks a fork into a potato. Beside him, John sighs in pleasure.

“Ma’am, you’re an excellent cook,” John says.

“You are too kind,” Maman says demurely, but she can’t hide the smile on her lips. 

“It’s been too long since I ate like this,” John says, and stuffs his face with another helping of turkey and sweet potato casserole. “My brother is a vegan, so our Thanksgiving dinners are always… somewhat lacking.”

“I heard they make pretty good fake meat these days. Soy or something,” Melanie says, and John shakes his head.

“He’s _super_ vegan. Won’t eat anything with the same texture or taste as meat.”

Joseph immediately comes to mind, but Rook’s seen him eat meat at the Rye’s barbecues. Which leaves only one brother, unless John’s got a third sibling secreted away somewhere. (Does Miss Jessop count as a sibling? Maybe. She comes over every Sunday and every family get-together. He’ll have to find a discreet way of asking.)

“Jake’s vegan?” Rook asks. John blinks.

“Yes. Why did you think he kept making those cookies?”

“I don’t know,” Rook says. “I guess maybe because you liked them.”

“Oh, and I do,” John says. “He’s an excellent chef. We’re very fortunate to have him.”  
  
Rook remembers the conversation on their first date. Jacob’s deployment, and subsequent eating disorder. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you are.”

All things considered, it’s a wonderful day. Or at least it’s wonderful until John’s phone starts ringing: Snow Patrol’s ‘Just Say Yes’. He winces. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll just turn…“ John starts, drawing his phone out of his pocket. He freezes when he sees the caller ID, face paling even further. “…Um. Actually, I’m afraid I need to take this. It’s my brother.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you know i am terrible at writing, let alone on a schedule
> 
> i hope you enjoy this actual plot chapter (that was technically supposed to be chapter three or four)

Rook doesn’t hear much of the phone call. Just a quiet ‘hello?’ as John presses the phone to his ear, heading into the hall. 

Rook concentrates on clearing his plate. It’s gonna be a tough one— he’s barely halfway through the potatoes and he’s already starting to feel full. Damn it, Maman…

He tries not to think about what’s happening in Hope. There’s not much they can do to help here, and it’s probably just Joseph being his usual self, wanting to know something minor about social media or worrying ‘cause his newest Youtube video doesn’t seem to be visible, or something. He listens to Melanie recounting some story about the recruits she’s training, then Mark talking business, and that’s when John reappears.

"I need to go back to Fall's End," John says, one hand warm on Rook’s shoulder, his cellphone clutched in the other. "I'm so sorry. I know you were really looking forward to this, Matt.”

"What’s the matter?” Rook asks. It's rare for John to display vulnerability, but the frown and the tight jaw and the tension in his shoulders can only mean one thing: he's very, very anxious. 

"Something's happened to Joseph, but he won't tell me what," John says.

“Have you called Jacob?” Rook asks, a pit of worry forming in his stomach. Sure, he’s not Joseph’s biggest fan— he doesn’t hate him, but the sheer amount of holier-than-thou shit Joseph comes out with makes it real hard to actively like him— but he’s important to John. Possibly the most important person in the world to John, except maybe Jake.

“He won't answer either," John says, and for one terrible moment, Rook thinks he's about to cry. He looks pale, his hands clearly trembling, his voice quaking oh-so-slightly. “I— Joseph asked me if I could stop by the house tonight, I reminded him that we’re in Canada, that we’ll be back Friday, and he hung up on me. So I have no idea what’s happened, except that he needs some kind of legal help.”

“Could Minkler help him out? Or… we could call Jerome, ask him to check in.” 

“Without knowing what the problem is, I’m loathe to call in someone new to deal with whatever’s happened. Joseph’s been through a lot over the years, and, uh…” John’s voice cracks, his mouth twisting for just a split second before he regains control. Rook knows about the mental breakdown, the reason Faith Seed was taken by CPS, and it’s clearly a much bigger source of stress and trauma than John likes to admit.

“Hey, I get it,” Rook says, softly, reaching for John’s hand.

John nods, silently, his mouth pressed into a thin, tense line. He squeezes Rook’s hand back. Then he sighs. 

“…All that’s to say I need to be the one to help him. I need to go back to Montana. I’m sorry.”

Rook frowns, confused. Why should John be sorry? 

Oh. The car. They travelled together. If John takes the car tonight, Rook will have to get back to Fall’s End on his own. He can get a bus as far as Browning, then probably Missoula or Billings. Mikey’s business sometimes brings him as far south as Fort Hall, so he’s probably passed the tunnel leading to Hope County a couple times. Could probably get Mikey to drop him just outside Fall’s End…

“Joseph knows how important this trip is to me,” John continues, jerking Rook out of his thoughts. He’s starting to sound hysterical, “and he would never interrupt like this unless it were dire. Never!” 

“Hey, I get it, I get it,” Rook says, quickly raising his hands in a calming gesture. “If you’re that worried, we can pack up the car after dinner and head on back tonight.”

"But what about Wednesday?" Nínna blurts, looking horrified. Maman must've told him about the proposal plan, then.

“Perhaps you can go back tomorrow evening, instead. We could reschedule the dinner reservation— I’m sure they’re open tomorrow. Most places are on Thanksgiving,” Maman suggests. Rook scowls. In what universe is getting engaged more important than making sure Joseph is okay? That, by extension, John is okay?

"You're just going to leave?" Melanie asks, pouting. Honestly, can't blame her being annoyed. He'd hate to be stuck here, alone, with these guys. Across the table, Madeline watches John, her mouth in a thin line that could be worry or anger. 

"It is better this way," Grandpère says, in an unexpected fit of familial loyalty. “Matthieu and his friend can return home to help le prêtre. It is fine." 

“We’ll come back some other time. Christmas or New Year or something,” Rook says, already exhausted, and they haven’t even finished lunch yet.

“Joseph always insists on a family Christmas,” John replies, “but New Year would be wonderful.”

“Okay,” Rook nods. He glances over to Maman and Nínna. “You mind if we come back then?”

“You are always welcome,” Maman nods, though she’s clearly unhappy that they’re leaving so soon. 

“Maybe we could leave this evening,” Rook says. “It’ll be really late by the time we get back, no matter when we leave. But we could probably get down to Browning and stay overnight, maybe ten or eleven. Naaàhsa might let us stay over if we call ahead. Or there are a couple motels in town. We can rest up and then take the last few hours early in the morning. That way we’d be at Joseph’s place by, like, nine or ten.”

John is quiet, chewing on his thumbnail. Then he nods. 

“That’s not a bad idea,” he says. “But I don’t want to inconvenience your family. And it feels wrong to meet everybody when…”

“I get it,” Rook says, just as Nínna pipes up. 

“Oh, you won’t be an inconvenience…” 

Rook ignores him, fixing John with his best supportive gaze. He reaches up, squeezes John’s shoulder. 

“If you want to leave tomorrow morning, I’m okay with that. If you want to leave right now, that’s fine too,” he says. 

“You can’t go right now!” Édouard demands.

“You said we were gonna play!” Éloise adds, and Mark sighs. 

“Stop it, you two,” he says, tiredly. “You promised you would behave.”

“How come Uncle Matt gets to break his promise and I don’t?” Édouard scowls up at his dad. Matt knows that look. A tantrum is incoming. 

“Nobody’s breaking any promises,” John says, quickly. “We’re not leaving right away. We’ll head off home a little after you do.” 

Mark looks surprised.

“At… what, eight? Nine? That’s pretty late, isn’t it?”

“You’d get to Browning well after midnight,” Nínna mutters, looking worried. “Niksíssta is getting kind of old, I don’t think she’s going to be up so late…”

“There’s no need to disturb anybody,” John says, and Rook realises where he’s going with this. An all-nighter. It’s not a terrible idea. It won’t be exactly pleasant, but they’ll be able to enjoy a long evening here, probably arrive at Joseph’s place around breakfast, around the time Fall’s End starts waking up. 

“Yeah, she probably has a lot on her plate right now,” Rook adds. “Hey, John, there’s a truck stop just outside Browning. I could drive down there, then you could take over for the last leg. Gives you a chance to rest before seeing Joseph.” 

John gives him a grateful smile. 

“It does,” he agrees. “And you.”

The matter is settled, then. Maman announces that she’ll send them back with a packed breakfast and some coffee, despite her children’s efforts to convince her otherwise. Nínna’s clearly unhappy that Naaáhsa’s going to have to wait another couple months to meet John, but he doesn't press the issue. It's clear that he gets it. Rook can’t count the number of times he’s headed back to the rez at short notice to help an auntie or a cousin or one of Naaáhsa’s neighbours.

Honestly, Rook counts himself lucky to have a man like Nínna as a father.

* * *

Rook ends up napping for a couple hours after cleaning up lunch, then snacks on leftovers and extra helpings of dessert throughout the afternoon and evening. He plays countless card and board games with the twins while John gives out the gifts he’d bought, does his best to make up for leaving early by being as sociable and charming as possible. He seems to succeed, even the ever-sour Madeline giving him a gracious smile by the end of the evening.

Rook gives Nínna his regular box of American snacks, and soon after Maman gives Rook a couple Tupperware containers of assorted baked goods— some snickerdoodles and leftover dinner rolls and pumpkin muffins. 

“Mom, you know I’ll forget to give these back,” he says, because he always does. He has an entire cupboard back home full of Maman’s Tupperware. 

“They’re only boxes, my sweet,” she replies. “Now, would you like ham sandwiches for breakfast, or would you like cheese?” 

“Mom…” Rook sighs, and he stops. She’s overbearing, but it’s only because she loves him. “I’m not sure. Let’s say one of each. I’ll help you.” 

“No, you are the worst cook I know,” Maman says, though she has a fond smile on her face. “You go fetch your flasks from the truck, then you can make the coffee for your journey.”

Rook can’t help but smile. He does as she asks, and Maman adds a couple paper bags filled with thick-cut sandwiches— made with both soft wholemeal and white farmhouse loaves. There are a couple zip-loc bags with sliced apples and carrots, too. Easily enough food for a family of four.

“Maman, there are only two of us,” he says, rubbing her shoulder. 

“I know, Chou, but it’s a hard journey…” Maman sighs. “You will call when you arrive home, won’t you? And you’ll tell us what’s happening with Prêtre Joseph?” 

“I will,” Rook promises, and gives Maman a warm hug. It’s almost overwhelming, all the love she’s been afraid of expressing the last couple years. But it’s nice. Especially since it’s directed at John, too. Rook had been convinced that she’d ignore him entirely. Glad to be wrong, though. 

“And you’ll ask him the question, won’t you?” Maman presses, and Rook has to think for a moment before he realises what she means. John’s in the living room, not ten feet away. The proposal. 

It’s a little annoying that she’s so obsessed with this, given that John’s family should be the clear priority here. But it’s also something Rook never thought he’d hear from her. She’d made it pretty clear growing up that she vaguely disapproved of queer people and the last ten years… well. The less said, the better. That she’s trying, that she seems to actually want to welcome John into the family… it almost doesn't feel real. Like a dream, a good one, that'll end at any moment.

Rook smiles at her, blinks away the sudden wetness at his eyes. He wants this to be real. Hopes it is.

“I will. I’ll tell you what he says.” 

“There is no need,” Maman says. “Of course it will be ‘yes’. You are a wonderful catch, and don’t you forget it. Tall, dark, and handsome, and you have a heart of gold.” Maman pauses. “Although of course you will learn to cook for your beloved, won’t you? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you know.” 

And through his cock, Rook thinks, but very wisely doesn’t say out loud. 

“I’ll try,” Rook agrees. “I’ve been getting better— I made scrambled eggs the other day.” 

They were _supposed_ to be sunny-side-up, but Maman doesn’t have to know that. She laughs, ruffling his hair, and starts packing the Tupperware and bags into a large carrier. 

* * *

John packs the truck while Rook does his goodbye rounds, hugging Grandpère, kissing Grandmère’s powdery cheek. The twins hadn't wanted to let go of Matt when they left maybe half an hour earlier, and Maddie had barely said two words to him before heading home. Melanie gives him a high-five, promises to come down to Fall’s End one of these days (like she always does). Maman wraps Rook in a tight hug, peppers his cheeks with kisses, fusses until John reappears and Nínna gently nudges her aside. 

“Make sure you keep this one, okay?” Nínna whispers, while John’s busy hugging Maman and Melanie goodbye. “I want to see you both back here next year. Unless he turns out to be an abusive asshole, then you gotta kick his ass to the curb and come home for a couple days, okay?” 

Rook fights the urge to roll his eyes. Nínna’s just trying to look out for him.

“Okay,” he says. “See you at New Year’s.”

“See you,” Nínna replies, with a bright smile, and pretty soon they’re off. 

The journey back to Fall’s End is uneventful. Rook takes the first leg of the journey, sticking to the highways going south. John makes a big show of choosing the right music to keep them both awake, then falls asleep somewhere between Claresholm and Fort MacLeod. Rook wakes him up when they pass the sign for Carway, and John stays lucid just long enough for the Border Control staff to check their passports, dozing off again not long after they cross. 

It feels a little strange, making this journey at night. The roads look different, the landmarks he’s passed a hundred times before almost invisible in the darkness. Rook slows a little on the less well-lit roads— he’s seen too many wrecks caused by late-night driving and moose collisions.

The Town Pump in Browning is just as quiet as Rook had expected it to be at one AM on a Sunday. Rook pulls in, looks across at John sleeping in the passenger. He looks so peaceful, asleep like this, cocooned in one of Naaáhsa’s blankets. Rook really ought to wake him up. John can sip coffee, get himself ready for his part of the journey. 

Rook can’t quite bring himself to do it. Tomorrow’s going to be full of problems for John, no matter what’s going on with Joseph. Maybe he could wake John up a little closer to Hope County. There’s another gas station near the turn-off point for Great Falls. He needs his rest and it’s not like Rook has anything pressing to do— he’s got ’til Sunday off.

Rook gets out of the car, careful to close the door quietly. He fills the tank a little, then heads inside and buys a Red Bull and a couple candy bars. He makes small talk with the clerk, takes a leak and washes his face with cold water, then heads back to the car, sipping at his new source of caffeine. John shifts a little when Rook closes the door and turns the engine back on, but doesn’t fully awaken. Then they’re back on the road. 

It’s less than an hour before Rook reaches the turn for Great Falls, the other gas station brightly lit. Rook considers pulling in, shaking John awake, but… well. He’s probably going to be annoyed that Rook didn’t wake him up earlier. Probably going to spend the entire last couple hours whining that Rook should’ve held up his end of the bargain, ‘cause he hates when Rook lets him off easy. And it’s not like Rook sleeps easy anyway. No, it’s better to let John rest. He needs it. 

Rook pulls over just long enough to sip some coffee, stretch his arms a little, stuff a couple half-melted candy bars in his mouth (probably should’ve kept them somewhere other than his back pocket). Then he continues, slow and steady. The roads are pretty much empty, even the one that goes right through Helena. 

Regular breaks. Coffee. Rook desperately wants to crack open one of the Tupperware boxes, fill his stomach with delicious, moist pumpkin muffins, but it would be too loud. Would probably wake John. 

When they get home, he promises himself. 

Down, down, down, through the valleys, winding around mountains. By the time Rook exits the tunnel that serves Hope County, the sun’s starting to rise, gently illuminating the familiar fields and mountains, pink streaking the sky. John shifts, frowning, when the amber light hits him square in the face. He cracks his eyes open. 

“Wh’s’a time?” John croaks, barely half awake. Rook hands him a thermos.

“Six-seventeen,” he says. “Drink up, you’ll need it.” 

John struggles for a moment with the thermos, then Rook’s words sink in. He turns, glaring at Rook.

“You were supposed to wake me up,” he says, accusingly. 

“Yeah, I was,” Rook says. “But you looked so cute and I wasn’t tired.” 

“Asshole!” John elbows Rook roughly. “We had a deal!”

“I figured you’d need the rest more than me,” Rook says. “I don’t have anything I need to do today. Figured I’d nap after we went to Joe’s place, you know?” 

John’s quiet. He doesn’t look happy, but he at least doesn’t look argumentative any more. 

“You want to stop at mine before we go to Joseph’s?” Rook asks. They already missed the turning for John’s place, but Fall’s End is pretty close. “Y’know, if you want to shower or brush your teeth or something.” 

John rubs his eyes, thinks for a moment. 

“Good idea,” he says. “Does that mean you’re okay with me taking your truck to Joseph’s?”

“I can drive you there. Won’t be able to sleep until I know what’s happening.”

“You’ve been driving all night,” John replies. “I’m not sure it’s safe.” 

“I wasn’t driving all night, I took breaks,” Rook says, but John still doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, you can drive, but I’m coming with. If they need your help, they might need mine too.”

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way…” John starts, and then he stops. Shakes his head. “Never mind. I highly doubt it’s a criminal issue.” He sighs. “Okay, but you have to sleep when we get home.”

“Home?” Rook presses, with a grin.

“My home,” John clarifies, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “Just thought my bed is more comfortable, that’s all.” 

“You going to be there, help me sleep?” Rook asks. He’s just teasing— if it turns out Joseph’s problem is really minor, maybe they can spend a couple days rolling in the sheets. Rook can fix up a romantic date and pop the question. Obviously, if the problem is serious, John’s going to be busy. 

The joke earns a laugh from John, at least. A soft snort of laughter. 

“You’re terrible,” John tells him as Rook pulls into his driveway. 

“I am,” Rook grins. He leans forward once the engine is off, presses a kiss against John’s cheek. 

It doesn’t take long to get ready. Fifteen minutes for a bathroom break and the remaining Thermos coffee (plus a pumpkin muffin or two), then they’re off again. 

“Joseph will be up by now,” John says, confidently. “Monday is technically his day off, but he doesn’t sleep in. He’s very much an early bird.” 

Joseph’s house is at the base of the mountain in the middle of the Henbane, a ten-minute drive from the place Rook and John had their first date just over a year ago, and a five-minute drive from his church, the old convent halfway up the mountain. It’s a fairly typical house for these parts: one storey, with faded siding and a dirt driveway. There are two vehicles outside: Joseph’s old but well-loved little clunker, and Jacob’s dented pickup. A far cry from John’s sleek SUV (and his brand-new Jeep). 

John pulls in, and they get out. Nothing looks amiss. Rook’s not totally sure what he’d expected, but this house looks the same as it always does. Small, vaguely unwelcoming. 

John strides toward the door, raps loudly on the door. Three knocks. 

There’s no answer. 

Rook glances at John. John glances at Rook. 

“Try again,” Rook says. “We can try the back, and if all else fails I can call the station and ask for a welfare check.” 

John nods, raising his fist to knock again, and there are loud footsteps and a shuffling noise from inside. 

Surprisingly enough, Jacob is the one to answer the door. His blue eyes widen in shock, then narrow in suspicion.

“What are you doing back here so early? Aren’t you supposed to be in Canada?” 

“Joseph called,” John explains. “I got worried.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have. Everything is fine,” Jacob scowls. He looks a mess, his red hair loose and tangled, dark circles under his eyes. “Go home.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but an ear-piercing wail drowns out his words. It’s the kind of cry Rook knows well, thanks to Nick and Kim letting him babysit his god-daughter. An infant, probably only a few months old.

“Is that a baby?” John shouts, barely audible over the crying.

Jacob glances back through the doorway, pale under all that facial hair. Joseph’s voice joins the noise, his words inaudible, though it sounds like an attempt at soothing.

Jacob looks at Rook, meeting him with a hard gaze.

“No,” he says, and he shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anybody was confused by the Siksika words: [ here is the linguistics paper I've been primarily using for my research.](https://opus.uleth.ca/bitstream/handle/10133/4769/MIZUMOTO_MADOKA_MA_2016.pdf) I felt that since Matt grew up off-rez, primarily in Anglophone provinces, his family would probably use Siksika and French titles/names as a way to stay connected with their cultures (though obviously they use other methods too). 
> 
> As always, if you spot something that misrepresents or is offensive toward any of the cultures I’m writing about, please tell me. The last thing I want to do is hurt anybody. I just enjoy learning and writing about people from different cultures, backgrounds and countries to myself. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and that you'll enjoy the next parts :)


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